


Soul Like Flotsam

by SpaceHobo



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: AU, AU Pirates, Barbossabeth, F/M, Ghost Sex, Hector and Elizabeth, Historian, Letters, Supernatural - Freeform, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceHobo/pseuds/SpaceHobo
Summary: An old house. An old book. Memories of a life forgotten.Elizabeth Knight has much to discover when her father's firm sends her to renovate a decrepit old house on the lonely coastline of Maine.





	1. Chapter 1

Elizabeth Knight gazed up at the looming shape of the the house. She could tell from the off-set that there would likely be a _lot_ of hard work ahead of her if she were to get the building back to a palatable state; either for a buyer or for the government to absorb and turn into a museum. 

The wooden boards creaked as she walked carefully up the front steps, peering left and right and making sure her foot wasn’t about to burst through a patch of dry-rotted floor. She pushed open the front door, unsurprised not to have had to use the dirty key the property owners had provided her with. The smell of dust and mould assaulted her nostrils as she crossed the threshold, setting down her messenger bag and opening it to remove her Nikon. She began snapping photos immediately as she wandered through the house.

Everything, positively _everything_ , was covered in a thick layer of dust. She’d have to deal with that before she could ascertain if there was anything of value left in the all-but-abandoned home. Then she and her team could begin work on bringing back the shine to this forgotten gem. 

She couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but for whatever reason, Elizabeth felt strangely at home in the quiet emptiness of the old gothic structure. She brushed a hand over a dusty stair railing, her fingerprints revealing the dull shine of well worn and well cared for old oak. Her footsteps trailed throughout the house, exploring as much of it as she could. 

Eventually, she found herself in a room that could only be a study, based on the shelves lining every available wall and the old wooden desk, complete with ink-blotter and green glass bankers lamp. She set her camera down on the desk, noticing that the shelves were all more than half full of books of varying sizes, colours, and ages. 

In an eye-level shelf beside the room’s only window, she found her gaze inexorably drawn. Her fingertips trailed over the spines of some sixties noir books, an ancient dictionary, what appeared to be a handful of out-of-date text books and-

Her fingers closed over the spine of a thick, well-worn leather volume tied closed with twine, pulling it from the shelf and carefully opening it. The rough edged pages were fragile; the mottled paper bearing faint handwritten lines upon its surface. Elizabeth turned the pages with caution, noticing a bulge in the centre of the book. Several loose papers were folded and tucked in between the pages as if hiding them away where they would be forgotten to time. 

Setting the book down, she carefully removed the sheaf of papers, crossing to the ancient wooden desk and placing them on the old sage-green blotter. The amateur historian in her bemoaned the lack of white glove with which to handle the centuries old documents. The little girl who had loved mystery and intrigue and romance in her was eager to spread the papers out and discover what lay upon them. With feather light touches, she lay the brittle documents out and scanned over them. At first sight, she could tell that there were two different writers. One’s handwriting was small and delicate; it flowed neatly across the page, the lines and paragraphs lining up with almost mechanical exactness. The other’s was a messy scrawl that almost leapt across the page, going wherever it wanted, as if it were in a hurry to reach the end of the sentence. There were numerous blots and smears from what she assumed were a quill pen and the difference to the content and method of writing were delightfully jarring. 

Each loose paper was dated in the top right corner; all of the dates spanning the course of a year: 1750. The papers before her were almost three-hundred years old. The enormity of time made her almost breathless. Sorting visually through the dated papers, she found the oldest one and pulled it closer to read. This missive bore the handwriting of the neater writer. Elizabeth sank down into the worn out leather office chair, which creaked threateningly under her weight, and began to read.

_12th of January 1750._

_I do not know what it is I have done to deserve this, but today an ill wind blew one Captain Hector bloody Barbossa to my doorstep. He was as unruly as ever and I was surprised when Will was more than happy to allow the reprehensible man into the house. He barely acknowledged my presence, which was more than a little irritating. This is my house and I will not be ignored when I am mistress of my own home._

Intrigued by the vehemence of the writing and the sharp jotting full-stops, made with such force the fragile paper was near to perforated, Elizabeth carefully picked out the next chronologically dated letter. It was in the same elegant hand as the former.

_14th of January 1750_

_Drat. **Damn**. He is a terrible man. A terrible houseguest. Will, of course, will hear nothing of turning him out. My dear husband has adjusted admirably to life as a simple blacksmith and gentleman. I am not quite sure why, given our history with Captain Barbossa, he did not send the horrid beast away immediately. A question he will no doubt never properly answer. I must return to my duties. I shall write more soon._

_16th of January 1750_

_I am not sure if time and experience has smoothed the rough edges of the pirate who once kidnapped me when I was naught but a girl, but something has changed in the ruddy faced Captain. He is still as raucous as he ever was, still as unheeding of societal norms and proper etiquette, but something seems to have…. I am unsure. When he looks at me with those bloodshot eyes, his irises like shards of sapphire, there is something almost soft in his gaze. I cannot put a name to it. I am not sure I **want** to know the meaning behind the intensity with which he watches me when he thinks I am unaware._

Elizabeth lay the letter facedown upon the small stack she had created. 

_20 January 1750_

_Gods and goddesses of sea and sky, how did my life come to this. How did it become so topsy turvy and twisted? A man like me is no stranger to the warmth of a woman’s arms. Nor of other parts of her body, for that matter. It is usually paid for fair and square; both parties leaving satisfied in one way or another; if I’m very lucky, whatever wench I manage to procure for myself leaves satisfied in both ways._

_How now do I find myself weak and short of breath in the presence of an insolent filly like Elizabeth Turner. ‘Turner’ as a name doesn’t suit her. Too harsh. Too common. A common name for an uncommon lass. She reminds me now of the tales my mam told me when I were naught but a bairn; tales of fairy queens fierce as they were beautiful. Strong as they were alluring. My eyes move over her shape, though I know helped along by whalebone and laces, the dip of her waist and the subtle curve of her breast. Who would have known that body hid beneath the Asiatic armor or the breeches and waistcoat she sometimes took to wearing during our last encounter._

_I find myself wincing as I read back over my words. Elizabeth is no ‘filly’, for that implies she would need to be broken. I would never allow such an injustice to occur; she is like Calypso in that she gained my love when she was at her most ferocious._

_Ah. And there I’ve said it. It is there in pen and ink and nothing short of destroying this document shall ever rescind the statement. Even the destruction of all my written thoughts would not burn away the truth of that statement. I do not wish for it. I did not seek it. Like the tide creeping ever closer to a man buried in the sands, it arrived and I am as one slowly drowning. She fills me like water; invading my airways and coursing through me with the blood that pounds in my head when her hand recently brushed mine._

_I am lost. I am lost and there is nothing on earth that shall help me find my way again._

Elizabeth sat back, feeling uncommonly warm. She touched her cheeks and realised they had flushed as she’d gotten further and further in the letter. 

_3rd of February 1750_

_Of all the thoughtless, self assured, **arrogant** , conceited_

The sentence ended with no punctuation or final word. Elizabeth puzzled over it, her eyes taking in the hurriedness of the writing. Her phone gave a screeching jangle, making her jump in surprise and almost send the stacked letters flying. Hurriedly, she wrestled her phone from her pocket and examined it. _James_. Of course it was James. Sighing, she answered the call, making sure she sounded as blasé as possible. 

“Hello James.” she said, wincing when she noticed how tight her voice sounded. 

“Oh good, I’m glad I caught you. I was afraid you mightn’t be able to get any reception out there in the boondocks. How’s the property?” 

Elizabeth looked around, as if a proper answer might be written upon the peeling wallpaper on the walls. 

“About as well as can be expected.” she replied. 

“Are you staying onsite tonight or….” 

“No. Not until I do some _major_ cleaning. And get a mattress that hasn’t played host to thirty years of bed-bugs and rodents.” 

“Fair enough. Would you like me to have your father arrange those things?” 

Elizabeth winced again. She hated it when James suggested her father accommodate her every whim, as if she weren’t capable of taking care of the necessary improvements without paternal intervention. 

“No. I have everything under control, thank you.” 

There was a pause on the other end of the line. 

“Ned left a message for you.” James said quietly. 

“Thank you.” Elizabeth replied calmly. “I’ll deal with it when I’m back in the office.” 

She could almost sense his worried expression over the miles and through the phone line. Ending the call she leaned back in the chair, which gave another tortured screech of protest. She gazed around at her surroundings again, loathe to return to the hustle and bustle of the city after the relative quiet and calm of this place. 

Sighing, she stood and gathered up her camera. She hadn’t noticed the sun beginning to make its descent toward the horizon. The afternoon had grown late and night would soon be upon her. The floorboards didn’t seem to creak as loudly as she made her way out into the foyer, hefting her messenger back and padding quietly down the front steps. Before she left she was sure to attempt to lock the door behind her. Attempt. Not succeed. She shrugged to herself and as she approached her car, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. A cool wind blew up out of nowhere, disturbing the dirty blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail and now tickled her cheeks. 

Turning slowly a thrill of fear jolted through her body as her eyes were drawn to the eye-like windows on the top floor of the house. She could just make out a shape in the shadows of the right hand window. A shape and what looked like the flash of blue eyes peering down at her. In the time it took to breathe, the apparition was gone. Elizabeth fumbled for her car keys, bolting towards the safety of her Prius and locking herself inside. 

She was in such a hurry to leave that it was only once she’d reached the driveway of the hotel that she realised the worn leather volume stuffed tight with letters lay on the passenger side seat beside her.


	2. Chapter Two

Fear, like pain, fades quickly once the stimulus has been removed or is out of sight. Elizabeth left the ancient book in the car and headed into the Econo Lodge her father’s company had booked her a room at. Once in the safety of the rented room, she kicked off her shoes and dropped her bag onto the bed, sitting down on the sway-backed mattress and flicking on the TV. The soothing blue glow of the idiot’s-eyeball made everything seem a little less scary and a little more normal. Colbert was on poking fun at the latest idiotic happenstance in the media and Elizabeth settled down against the musty, slightly damp pillows and wriggled out of her jeans, tossing them to the floor. Her bra was next to be wrestled from her body and she let out a sigh as the garment joined her jeans on the floor.

She tugged the worn hotel blanket over herself and settled in, not bothering to brush her teeth as she felt the drowsiness overtake her. Her head sank into the pillow and her breathing slowed. The air-conditioner hummed, harmonising with the murmured words from the television host, and becoming the background noise to which she fell into slumber. 

_Warm breeze tickled her skin. The tang of salt in the air. The smell of sweat and unwashed bodies. A feeling of excitement and anticipation. Beneath her hand was a thick, coarse rope. She was standing atop a wooden rail, her hand wrapped around a rope ladder as she delivered sharp and demanding words to a bevy of gathered men. All were attentive. All had eyes fixed upon her. None so piercing as a man standing amidst the motley collection of crew, for that is what she realised they were. Sharp blue eyes set deep in a weather-beaten face and beneath a wide brimmed hat followed her and indicated he listened to every word._

_She heard her own voice, but was it her own? It was familiar but slightly changed. She spoke words of bolstering encouragement to the gathered multitudes, watching as their previously downtrodden faces lifted and showed expressions of hopefulness. As her speech finished, her eyes found the faces of three men in particular. One dreadlocked and nervous looking, one young and ponytailed with an expression of deepest adoration for her, and one who’s worn face and blue eyes wore a look of conflict and concern. The crew set about their stations and Elizabeth walked through the hustle and bustle toward him._

_“Captain-”_

Elizabeth’s legs moved in her sleep, dislodging her bag and knocking it to the floor. The thud shook her awake and she started up in her sleep. As she blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes, she could just make out a silhouette backlit by the still murmuring television. A tall figure stood just barely hidden in shadows. She could barely see the shape of a knee length coat and a hand resting upon the hilt of some unseen blade. Elizabeth stifled a gasp as her eyes traced their way upwards. Two blue specks like the pilot lights of a furnace burned at her beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. Her breath caught in her throat as the silent figure reached out a hand. She could see the shape of every finger as the hand was held out towards her, beckoning, almost pleading.

And then in an instant it was gone. The suddenly vanished spectre left a hole in her vision, the effect very much the opposite of having stared too long at the sun. Slowly, the shape faded and Elizabeth’s heartbeat returned to normal. 

She couldn’t help but feel a sense of creeping dread. This feeling was tempered with the inexplicable sensation of familiarity. But that was silly, wasn’t it? How could a shadow be familiar? The unease slowly ebbing away, she burrowed down under the covers, pressing her face into the pillow and slowly dropping back off to sleep.

Her dreams were full of the rocking of a ship at sea; salt spray and the call of gulls across the water as sweating bodies laboured on deck. 

*&^%$#$%^&*


End file.
